


The Tale of Two Children

by WrittenByCee



Series: The Deathly Tales [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dark Magic, Death, Emotional dependence, Explicit Language, F/M, Horror, Manipulation, Multi, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sexual Content, Tragic Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-11-09 08:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17998574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenByCee/pseuds/WrittenByCee
Summary: Let me tell you the story of the Children of Death.Let me tell you about their youth.Let me tell you about their curse.____________________________________* First part of a two part series entitled "The Deathly Tales"* The story and characters were inspired by JK Rowling's Wizarding World and are based on canon knowledge.* Please forgive my grammar mistakes. English is not my mother tongue.* PUBLISHED ONCE A MONTHAND DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE A KUDO / A COMMENT. Every writer loves to know what people think of their work.





	1. “Death comes for all of us in the end. But She was already here at the beginning”

**O** nce upon a time, on the same year, two babies, a crying fair girl born in spring and a quiet sickly boy born in winter, came to the world. Motherless children, both so different and yet so alike, both born with a foot in the cradle and the other in the grave, already aware of the darkest omen that scares even the most powerful men. Death.              
On their first night on this earth, She paid the two children Her first visit for Lonely Death desired what her sister Beloved Life had denied her: children.           
Bent over their cribs, swinging them with bliss, She sang the two children to sleep, a gruesome lullaby and scary music that was nothing less but a funeral march, for Death and Her painful heart had reaped their mothers’ souls before dawn.         
Both children acted terrified but only the girl, whom Death had first heard whine, found the strength to cry, for the little boy, whose dark eyes were open wide, staring at Death’s gloomy face, was breathless and petrified.            
Death smiled and kissed the two children goodbye, knowing she’ll meet them sometime.

            **W** hen the girl reached five, Death knocked at her house gates one more time. She was pleased to see her pretty child and her bright luminous smile living a happy life despite the awful demise.  
The girl was playing on the swings hung to a centenarian tree, the biggest of the property. Above her silver head, sitting on an old branch, her older brother held a stolen blade in his chubby hand. Threatening to cut the ropes of the swings, he kept smiling and swinging on the tree and so Death so displeased by the cherub’s mischief decided to punish his evil deeds. The girl was no one’s to mistreat except Hers when her time would be.         
Therefore, when the girl’s bottom landed hard on the soil and silent tears started to roll; Vengeful Death fell from the leaves and with two sharp teeth bit Georges till blood seeped.      
And on that day, Death paid the girl her second visit, this time not as a song but as a hiss for Motherly Death had stricken as a snake, an adder with smooth grey scales and reddish brown eyes that scared the girl’s brother who tumbled from the elm with a sharp loud scream that made Death’s favourite close her pale green eyes.      
When the girl finally dared to glimpse, her brother was swinging in the breeze from that solid rope he had played with. Neck broken, mouth agape, eyes red with blood, he was indeed gone. The girl gasped and screamed. And Death grinned with pride as She slithered on the girl’s thighs. Why had She left her child?

            **T** hus Death, pleased with herself, decided it was time to pay Her second visit to the boy whom She hadn’t seen in years.           
On a dreary night, She sat at his bedside and lay by his side. He was sicklier than when she had last met him. So feeble, so rickety and yet so pretty. Her poor poor boy, how perfect he could be.  
Her vile arms around him, she brushed his wet skin and smelt his dark hair that were as black and rare as the cloak She had to wear. She looked at his swollen throat. She looked at his red pale face, stared at his glassy eyes and started to cry when She heard his lungs whistling as he silently whined. The wretched boy was wheezing of both sickness and panic and Death hated it. She didn’t want him to fear Her. She didn’t want him to suffer.       
She caressed his feverish forehead and the boy trembled from toes to head. Paralyzed, he stared at Her black-hooded figure, with a fear in his constricted pupils that rendered him muter than the first time he had met Her.  
Death put Her cold hand over his heart and felt it beat against Her palm. So quick. So fragile. Terrified. Her precious child. She could easily take him with Her she thought, wrapped in her tenebrous dark cloak, the same way She had taken the silly Merope, like a hunter kills a doe, in that very same room years ago. After all something in him was begging her to put his tiny body in a black hearse. But deep in his eyes there was something else hidden behind terror and stress, a will to fight Death.      
Death was intrigued. How come such a young dying boy like him could think such a thing? And so with a grin, She let the boy live, hoping to see him becoming combative. And instead of him, She took little Jim in the bed next to him.         
For days Death observed the child to see him thrive. How grim seeing a sweet boy like him slowly reaching darkness to its brim. Was he darker than Death Herself? She wondered and, without an excuse, let the vengeful boy tie a noose around the poor rabbit’s neck that used to live under Billy Stubb’s desk. It would carry no more infections after this retribution.  
And so the rodent fell and the boy gloated so heartfelt as the animal swung, shook and squealed until it became still. Unsettled, Envious and Worried Death stared at the boy. What had She done? What had She made? An offspring? An heir? Or a new plague?

            **W** ith a feeling of powerlessness She wanted to see fade, Death came back to the girl and paid her a third visit.             
She spotted the father in tears, afflicted with sorrow and unable to grieve. His wife and son were no more and his daughter was just a sore. In a great theatricality and needed pride, Death inspired the man to take his life and so he tied a knot to be buried with his lie. Never to be revealed his secret would be.             
And thus, the wretch shook and swung at the end of the rope but unlike the rabbit the man didn’t squawk. It let Death furious and jealous and so She became vicious.            
She hissed the silly girl to stand in here and so the girl found the poor body. It was casting a large shadow on the family portrait on the wall; an enchanted picture painted years before her birth but that somehow never added her figure.    
The girl screamed the same way she had screamed before and the maid ran to her for comfort. She asked the girl to look away but she stared anyway.            
Alerted by the squeal, the gardener who everyone thought a squib, arrived to cut the rope but his spell did not result as he had hoped. The rope turned into a weird-looking snake that eventually freed the father’s neck but that also bit the poor lad who weirdly instantly died. This time, there was no shouting for the girl realised she had to grow accustomed to Death’s doing. And that’s the second and last day She knocked at the door for She knew that the manor had went through enough tremor.

After that, the girl left Great Hangleton to live near London with her paternal grandparents who found her rather aberrant. Though they were old, chubby and rather stunted folks, with white-streaked black hair and an odd air, the girl could definitely catch the resemblance with her dead father’s appearance.              
When the maid left her, they squinted at her with scorn and rage that left Death outraged. How could badgers look so much like predators?      
It worried the little lonely girl but Protective Death promised her those mortals would not be the end of her. She had something better for her that would bind mother and daughter forever. The girl would learn to embrace Death like a mother or like a goddess. She would learn to love Her the same way She loved her. Unconditionally, eternally.

            **W** hen it finally was time to pay the boy a third visit, Death found Herself powerless.  
The child of the orphanage was nothing like his age. No pure innocence, but a hidden malevolence. He was growing in a way She could not even say. An evil deceiver and sadistic liar. With a smirk on his childish face, he could find delight in darkness and pleasure in wretchedness.  
And so Death watched him, wondering how She could stop that heir she had unconsciously mould to be just like Her, that ominous child She knew since birth and that She now wanted so badly in a hearse despite Her motherly tenderness. She wondered as She saw him hurting others with spells and jinx, as She witnessed him wearing a soft lambskin to bite like a water moccasin.  
She looked in his future and saw Her boy fancying himself a killer and stealing death from her. This could not happen. Therefore, one night, Death realised it was time for her precious boy to die.  

            **B** ut this decision was not to Life’s liking. She appeared to her sister to stop the killing. Death had stolen two of her most beautiful children and so she had come screaming revenge. With her darkness, She had corrupted them. She had contaminated them. She had poisoned their innocent spirits, their pure bodies. So Death, as punishment, would watch them rot alive. She would watch them live an awful life and walk down a path full of knives. She would watch them hate Her, fear Her and run away from Her.         
Afflicted Death cried and Powerful Life smiled.         
So Death bargained. “Take my son. His cause is lost. But leave my daughter be for she is all I need. Let her be mine. She is my pride, my first born, my first love.”    
Reluctant Life exhaled and out of compassion declared, “Fair enough, sister. Have your daughter.”  
Death sighed and did not linger. Then Life smiled and uncrossed her fingers hidden behind her back. And when her sister was far she decided it was time to wage war. “Oh sister, haven’t you heard that Life’s unfair and do not care. You thought you could steal from me but there is no one slyer than me. Now watch me steal from you that daughter that is so dear to you using that vile son you abandoned.”            
Thus, Life entered the boy’s dreams and infused a fear in him that made her grin. An easy task indeed for the dread of death was already in his head. For abusing people’s trust, his fate would be the dust and Death he would apprehend as well as the dirt of a grave in the end.          
Therefore, like a seed, Life beheld the boy’s fear grow roots and give fruit. The boy whom Her sister had wished to see combative had now another idea. He would not simply fight Death. He would conquer Death. Immortality he would seek for the grave is for the weak.   
And the daughter would fall for him, that pretty snake so enchanting yet so grim, and she would let him corrupt her to become a death eater.   
“O yes, eat Death. Steal Death. My beloved cursed children”


	2. “ Beware the Snakes hiding in the Phoenix feathers and slithering between the Thestral’s feet ”

**O** ne summer day, Destiny met the young protagonist whose name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. A strange name indeed but one that fitted him like a magnificent pair of shiny seven-leagues boots when, like me, you already know what he would grow up to be. But for now, you, my dear reader, might associate him with the Boy scared of Death from our previous chapter.

He was but eleven years old, dark-eyed, black-haired and tall but too sickly-looking for his young age, which worried a lot of people at the orphanage. Moreover, adults were especially concerned because he rarely ever spoke a word or cried even as a baby. Everyone always thought he was quite creepy for a child and therefore tended, unconsciously or not, to be wary of him.           
Notwithstanding, he was more cunning and had a far greater share of wisdom than all the children who lived in the orphanage put together.    
Truth to be told, the boy was actually very special. He had magical abilities. He could do things other children could not do. He could make things move without touching them, make animals do exactly what he wanted them to do. But his most incredible gift was his capability to talk to snakes, his favourite animals, which knew how to found the boy in his moments of needs.

 … This is how this story would have actually begun if it had been a fairy tale, a lovely story parents would read their children at night to help them sleep, a beautiful story that makes them dream of magic and enchanting creatures, one that is always followed by a loving goodnight kiss.          
But this story, despite being about magic and enchantments, has nothing beautiful or lovely.        
This story is dark and terrible. This story is about evil, about corruption, about fear, about death. This is the story of a growing tyrant and a virginal maiden. This is the story of how even the purest angels can lose their wings, of how demons can sometimes crawl from under your bed, of how madness cannot always be contained in an attic. This story is not for children. This story, despite being called a tale by the author, is only called that way because no one would ever believe it, and also because, like life, you don’t how long or how good a tale is going to be.            
But let me tell you one thing, if it is a happy ending that you wish you chose the wrong book.

Now let’s read the real story…

Despite his angelic looks, Tom was not a nice boy, nor was he innocent. He was haughty, disdainful and feared in the orphanage and he could easily make anyone feel uncomfortable with a simple look. Moreover, since a year now, the other children had been refusing to approach him due to some rumours that had spread like wildfire and slithered like a snake in tall grass after the last trip to the seaside Mrs. Cole had organised last summer.        
Something had happened to Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, something certainly awful since they refused to talk about it. And since nobody knew what exactly, it was, therefore, better to stay away from Tom.          
Any child would have felt offended by the sort of reaction but not him. On the contrary, he took a certain joy in isolation and loneliness. He had no friend and he was happy about it. The only thing that upset him was when people were whispering about him, when they were saying he was “mad”. He had heard Mrs. Cole speaking that word quite a few times or at least implying it and so he had convinced himself that she definitely wanted him locked up.     
This paranoia, founded or not, had kept him awake for days, not due to some anxiety or fear but because of a strong will to find a way to make Mrs. Cole pay for her words and intentions. It had been in vain though because on the seventh day of conspiracy the old cow sent a man to his bedroom that would change Tom’s life forever, a man who told him about a fabulous hidden world behind a wall, an enchanted world where people like him with extraordinary capabilities live in secret and away from the pathetic world he could see from his bedroom window. And not only had the old man told about this world he was now so eager to see, but he had also given him the key, a combination that would open the door leading to his dreams.

If only that poor man had known the consequences of this meeting. If only he had known he had just let a terrible monster enter the sacred land. If only he had known he had doomed his kind, things would have been different.

But this is for another day. For now, let’s focus on Tom Marvolo Riddle and on the day everything began for him.

            **I** t was, as I said, a lovely summer day and as he was staring at the brick wall before him, hearing his destiny calling out from this new world waiting for him, little Tom couldn’t remember a day he had been that excited.                        
He had woken up this morning at dawn when the sun was barely colouring the London grey sky in weird shades or orange with an unusual trepidation that had made him unable to eat even a spoonful of Mrs. Cole disgusting sticky porridge. And with a smile that had disconcerted him and that he had tried to repress in vain he had put his clothes on – which were merely old grey shorts and a crumpled shirt that had lost his whiteness long ago – and combed his jet-black hair in a flash only to be perfectly on time to take the next bus to Charing Cross Road.       
And yet here he was, petrified and perfectly still, a knot in his empty stomach and his hand unconsciously checking if the weird gold coins he had been gazing at all night with wonderful dreams of grandeur and hopes in his little head were still in here.         
He knew how to pass. He knew which bricks he had to press. He had repeated the combination in his head over and over. But his body refused to obey his strong will. And even though he was sure this reaction wasn’t out of fear he couldn’t pinpoint the reason of this sudden inexplicable paralysis.

“Are you having trouble passing through, child?” The voice had come from behind him and had made Tom jump and gasp. He turned around, only to see a short fat ginger lady wearing shiny colourful jewels, way too much makeup and a brilliant pink and orange dress that ungraciously hugged her body, giving her the look of a huge kite.            
Tom didn’t answer, somehow shocked by that weird sight in front of him as he was peering at the woman and her rich yet ridiculous get-up. She didn’t take it as an offense though and merely smiled to him. “First time in Diagon Alley, huh?” He frowned. He didn’t like her mothering tone at all “What a cute muggle-born!”  She giggled as she pinched his cheek so hard it became red. The boy took a step back with a grimace on his face and even though he didn’t fully get the sentence he felt insulted. “Are you here to buy school supplies for your first year at Hogwarts? You know, your parents could come with you. The wizarding community is becoming more and more tolerant of muggles in our world.”              
“ I have no parents.” The boy retorted in a clear yet perfectly masked attempt to make the woman uncomfortable.           
“ Oh, Merlin’s beard. I’m so sorry.” She put her ring-ornamented hand on her mouth, definitely confused though she sounded and looked overly dramatic. “Poor child.” She tried to pinch his cheek again but he moved his head in a way that made the fat lady realized her familiarity was far than appreciated. She felt guilty and suddenly moved aside to grab a little girl who had been hiding behind her imposing large back. She didn’t dare to look at Tom, definitely shy and perhaps embarrassed by her aunt’s behaviour. Discreetly, she rubbed her sweaty hands on her black and yellow skirt that made her look like a human-size bee and that didn’t suit her pale complexion or her very light blond hair.          

This girl was Cecilia Eurydice Smith, the girl Death loved like a daughter.  
She had turned twelve when spring had finally flourished the garden and yet she was certainly one of the only spawns of wizards of her age that hadn’t set a foot in Hogwarts yet, not because of the colourful woman next to her (who happened to be her dear aunt Hepzibah- or Zi to her friends and family – and the reason why she was actually going to school this year) but because of the weird folks that had taken her under their roof when she had become an orphan.     
The reason of their refusal, though it wasn’t what they had said to the child, since they had pretended they were just hesitating between sending her to Hogwarts or sending her to Beauxbatons, was that they were sure Cecilia would obviously bring shame and sorrow to their family as she had always done since the day she was born according to them.       
You see, the entitled Aran and Mara Smith had trouble to recognize Cecilia as one of their family for the child looked nothing like them or their late son. She was the spitting image of her mother, “a Greengrass girl and a venal woman, a Slytherin for Merlin’s sake. Couldn’t you marry Augusta Longbottom?” and they were used to saying, behind closed doors obviously but often loud enough for the child to hear, that Cecilia was certainly not even their son’s daughter. “Little George looked like Amos, but Cecilia … I’m telling you Aran, and I’m sure of it, the Greengrass whore was seeing someone else. And if that child goes to Hogwarts and is not made a Hufflepuff, which is going to happen Aran, mark my word, people will know she is not from our family and our son’s memory will be tarnished. She’ll bring shame to our house, shame I’m telling you! ” What an awful thing for a little girl to hear.

“My niece is going to Hogwarts too.” Hepzibah Smith said with a grin. “Maybe you two could get acquainted. It’s always nice to know someone when we arrive in a new place.” Tom frowned to see the little girl’s shameful face hidden under her bangs and immediately grimaced in disdain when he noticed her palpable lack of self-confidence.           
“ Thank you. But I’m afraid I have no time to make acquaintances.” He replied with a politeness that the fat woman found really mature and rather unusual for a boy his age. “Very well.” She blinked and tapped the wall three times with a kitschy wand she took from her pink handbag, still confused by that short meeting.              
The bricks started quivering then moving and suddenly a paved street Tom had trouble to distinguish appeared. Tom hid his face from the dazzling sun shining on the shop windows and blinding him. Then, when his dark eyes felt accustomed to the light, he finally looked at the place with a smile that instantly faded to let confusion mark his young features.            
That was it? That merry place that looked like straight from a childish fairy tale? Where was the formidable architecture? Where were those power-radiating persons he had imagined? Mighty wizards in dark cloaks with serious airs and extraordinary charisma. Why did people look so colourful and extravagant and irritably bubbly?           
No. That wasn’t what he had expected. That couldn’t be it.              
And so he felt disappointed and his disappointment spawned a feeling of difference, a sensation of being apart, but not in a way most children who were discovering this amazing place would feel.    
Tom felt superior to the people before him. And this weird feeling grew more and more as he studied them chatting and laughing, looking definitely ridiculous, a bit like the fat lady, or way too ordinary as any regular person who could be seen in a street in London.             
Nevertheless, he stepped through the archway, followed closely by Hepzibah Smith and Cecilia who kept walking towards a cauldron shop, leaving Tom behind. Before entering, the little girl waved him goodbye with a soft smile but Tom remained impassive and still.

After a few seconds, he started walking up the street in search of the supplies he would need to go to school. A long list in his hand, he started reading to make sure he remembered everything. Three sets of black plain work robes, a pointed hat, protective gloves in dragon leather or similar and a black winter cloak. “Please note that all student's clothes should carry name-tags at all times” Tom whispered and grimaced. He hated his name. So ordinary, unlike him. He was not ordinary. He was special. Definitely more special than any child in the orphanage or anyone in here to be sure. And so he thought he would just write “T.M Riddle” since he was actually proud of his father’s name. After all, he was sure the man had to be an extraordinary wizard otherwise he wouldn’t be half the boy he was now.

He entered a crowded shop called Madam Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions and looked around. He was not the only child in search of a uniform as many were looking for or trying clothes around him. “Good morning, young man.” Said a squat woman all dressed in mauve. “First year, isn’t it?” Tom nodded and she pointed him a section of her shop. “We have beautiful work robes over there. High quality, very soft.”         
“Actually, madam. I was wondering if you had second-hand clothes.” He said a bit embarrassed. “Sure. We have that. Not many but we have that. Right there.” Tom followed the direction she indicated and began rummaging through the clothes hoping to find sets of clothes that were his size and were not too shabby. Not an easy task. Some were way too large for his skinny physique or the fabric was way too faded.           
As he kept searching, he noticed an emblem on some of them, animals embroidered in bright colours in a gold crest: a red lion, a green snake, a blue eagle (or was it a raven?) and a yellow badger. He frowned and observed one of them, the snake, and with his fingers touched the reptile with a certain weird and unsettling attraction. He loved snakes. “This is Hogwarts’ emblem.” Tom heard and turned his head.          
There was a boy sitting nonchalantly on the stairs nearby. He was taller than Tom, with curly short black hair and brown eyes and he was wearing a fancy brown cloak held by a shiny gold chain above a simple yet definitely classy white and khaki summer suit. Not the kind of boy forced to buy second-hand clothes. “It represents the four houses of the school and also the four founders: the lion is for Godric Gryffindor, the badger for Helga Hufflepuff, the eagle for Rowena Ravenclaw and the snake for Salazar Slytherin. This one is the best house according to my father. And I agree. After all, even Merlin went there.” Tom nodded, pretending to know this and the boy continued talking with a disarming self-confidence that sounded like arrogance. “I know I’ll be sorted in this house. I have to. All my family entered Slytherin. It is a tradition and a good one. Imagine being eternally sorted into Hufflepuff like the Smith family. Ridiculous. Just like their emblem. A badger, can you believe it?”            
“ I know.” Tom replied though everything he was listening to sounded very abstract to him.           
“ Where my family comes from, calling someone a badger – _blaireau_ \- is an insult.” Tom frowned, not sure to recognize the language. “It’s French.” The boy clarified. “ I’m Rambert Lestrange, by the way.” He stood up and extended his hand. Tom shook it. “My name is Tom Riddle.” Rambert frowned and stayed silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts. “I never heard that name. You’re not from the sacred twenty-eight, are you?” The _sacred twenty-eight_? Tom repeated the words in his head to make sure to do some research on it later.         
“ I don’t know. I’m an orphan… My father was a wizard though.” He felt obliged to add in a feeling of inferiority he definitely disliked.     
“ And your mother?” Rambert asked with the same disdainful frown that hadn’t leave his face since the beginning of this conversation. “Also a witch” Tom lied for he had the impression it would be better for him. “But I don’t know her name or anything about her really.”      
Rambert shrugged, unimpressed, before looking at a brown-haired woman fully dressed in black and burgundy – certainly his mother – who was waiting for him with a strange ugly small creature at his side carrying boxes. “Well, I guess we’ll see each other at Hogwarts then.”

Tom watched them leave and, from the window shop, noticed them disappear towards an appealing dark alley. And as he did he couldn’t help but wonder if he would have been like Rambert or had a similar life- he was sure he had a good one - had his mother never died or had he lived in a family of wizards like the arrogant boy. Surely Rambert’s family looked more sophisticated and more faithful to Tom’s imaginary portrait of wizards families than all the ones he had spotted shopping in Diagon Alley.

After buying the required uniform, the boy went to buy a cauldron in the shop next to Madam Malkin’s and other equipment in another one that sold stuff that Tom had never seen before. When he left, he counted the remaining golden coins. There weren’t many left but they were hopefully enough to buy all the books on his list and his wand, a purchase he intended to do last to spend all the remaining money without worrying. After all, broomsticks weren’t allowed and he definitely wasn’t fond of pets. 

Tom walked passed a nice colourful library with a sublime front window called _Flourish and Blott’s_ but judging by the look of it, he decided not to enter and chose to go to a second-hand bookshop located further away.          
Books were definitely rather expensive even if they weren’t new and they were so heavy. Tom sighed as he left the library with the pile of books in his arms and he wished he had the same creature that accompanied Rambert and his mother or at least someone to carry all these books. Fortunately, the wand shop was not far.

He crossed the street and pushed the door with his arm after reading in peeling gold letters the name Ollivander written over the entrance. A little bell rang and the door immediately closed behind him.      
The place was narrow and rather decrepit. It had a stale smell and everything around him looked covered in thick white dust. It tickled his nose and he soon felt the urge to sneeze. He tried not to since he couldn’t hide his face in the inside of his elbow, his arms holding tightly yet difficultly all the boxes containing the school supplies.     
“ Wingardium Leviosa” Tom suddenly heard and before he even realised all his purchases started floating and flying in the room. He tried to catch them first by using his hands and then by using his magic, as he did not really understand what was happening. Unfortunately for him, his fierce attempts to have his stuff back were vain since he finally felt the urge to sneeze instead.  
Angry and disconcerted, he hopelessly watched the supplies landing on an old wooden desk next to a boy who was holding up a wand. He looked slightly older than Tom, was definitely taller and had a pair of bright blue eyes and light auburn hair that fell on his shoulder. “It’s better this way, isn’t it?” He asked with a cheeky smile. “Oh and normally you can not use magic outside of Hogwarts. But I won’t tell if you don’t. Though I must admit you using wandless magic left me, I guess, amazed. That was impressive. Vain but impressive. You must be from a family with formidable powers or at least unafraid of the Ministry if they taught you this.”           
“ No one taught me anything.” Tom replied and the boy’s eyes widened as he soundlessly whispered his amazement.          
“Here to buy your first wand, huh? How do you feel? Stressed? Excited?” Tom opened his mouth to answer but the boy kept on talking. “When he was time for me to receive mine last year, I was so curious. I wondered which wand would choose me. I thought I would have an elm, unicorn tail hair core. I ended with a cherry, dragon heartstring. Pretty difficult wand to wield.” He showed it to him with a proud smile and put it back on the desk. “Guess I’m not as good as dad. I’m Archibald Ollivander by the way, owner of this shop, and welcome to Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. How can I help you?”  
The sudden weird professionalism left Tom a bit unsettled. “ I …”       
“ You’re not the owner of this place, Archie.” A ginger man with silvery blue eyes appeared from behind the high shelves. “Not yet.” He stopped and looked at Tom with a frown. “I’ve never seen you in Diagon Alley before, young boy.”             
“ It’s my first time” Tom confessed, not really liking the fact that he looked like an outsider to the man’s eyes.        
“ Oh! A muggle-born” The boy frowned, angry. That name again. “But it’s not a bad thing, trust me. I’m part muggle myself, you know. Half-blood. My father is a wizard and my mother is a muggle-born witch and she is far more talented than him.” He chuckled but immediately lost his grin when he noticed that Tom had not even cracked a smile. “Anyway.” He approached the boy with a measuring tape in his hand and began to measure him from shoulders to fingers, wrists to elbow, knee to armpit, shoulder to floor, round his head and even between his nostrils which made Tom take a quick step back a bit like an annoyed cat and look at the man with a judging look that he chose to ignore. “You’re quite a tall lad, boy, though a bit frail. You should eat more pumpkin soup. Let’s try this. Ash, dragon heartstring, 12 ¾ inches.” He handed him a very simple brown wand he took from a box placed among many other boxes on a shelf behind him. Tom looked at it and grimaced before staring at the man. “ Swing it a bit, come on.” Tom obeyed and the tip of the wand shone briefly before a fire started on a pile of papers near poor Archibald who consequently jumped. Tom was amazed and amused but Ollivander took back the wand, slightly astonished by the boy’s reaction. “Definitely not.”            
He handed him another one. This one was very black and a bit longer than the other. “Elm, unicorn tail hair, 13 inches.” Tom glared at the wand. “Unicorn?” He said with a reluctance that wasn’t left unnoticed. Dragon sounded better.          
“Very loyal wands.” Tom shrugged and waved the wand which broke the shop glass door in thousands of little pieces, almost hurting at the same time the girl who was entering the shop. Fortunately for her, Ollivander protected her with an incantation and the tiny pieces of glass went back in place as if nothing had happened. “Wow,” Tom said, impressed by the spell he had accidentally cast.

Still scared and shaken, the little girl - who was no one else but Cecilia - remained petrified. “Hello there.” Ollivander welcomed her.    
“ Hello.” She mumbled back. “Maybe I should come back later.”       
“ No, no need. Come on in.” The man waved her to approach and she shyly obeyed. He observed her from head to toes as he had observed Tom before her. “Very light blond hair but you’re not a Malfoy, that’s for sure… Those green eyes, however. I saw those eyes once. Aren’t you Lucretia Greengrass’ daughter, dear?”  
“ Yes.” She said, perplexed “ But how …”        
“ Cecilia Smith, is that it?” The girl remained silent, her eyes wide opened. “Yes, I knew your mother. I also knew your father, Amos. We went to Hogwarts together. I was even at their wedding. Terrible what happened to them … and to your brother. They were such nice folks but I’m glad to finally meet you. Actually, I expected you last year.”    He said as he started measuring her.  
“My grandparents weren’t sure to send me to Hogwarts.” Her voice sounded flat but sad.      
“Your parents are dead?” shouted Archibald in shock before being yelled at by his father. The girl looked at her feet and Tom stared at her, feeling something a bit strange in his little heart.    
“You look a lot like your mother, you know? So maybe this wand would suit you.” Ollivander said to change the subject before giving her a neat wand with a beautiful handle, leaving Tom alone and therefore vexed. “Laurel, Unicorn tail hair. 11 inches.”  
“ Excuse me.” Tom asked but the man did not answer. Instead, he stayed focus on the girl with a large smile on his face and watched her giving the wand a small wave. The wand shone red and suddenly all the boxes behind Tom fell from their shelf. The young boy jumped, surprised and watched all the wands that had fallen on the ground. “Oh, Merlin’s beard! Definitely not unicorn.” Ollivander said as he quickly took back the wand from Cecilia’s hands leaving her saddened and disappointed. Her mother and everyone in the Smith family had always got a unicorn tail hair wand.

Hopeless, she watched the wand seller disappear towards the back of the shop without a word and observed Archibald put the fallen wands back in order. “Let me help you.” She said as she knelt to pick some up. “Oh, no need. Don’t worry.” And yet, she insisted and formed a pile of wands in her arms.

That’s when Tom spotted it, lying on the ground, poking out of its box. A faded yet deep brown wand with a simple but beautifully well-made handle. Hypnotised and appealed to it, he knelt and tried to grab it. He barely touched it when Garrick Ollivander seized it first.  
He looked at it and then looked at the boy, in silent and with a curiosity that filled his silvery blue eyes. “Weird. Extremely weird. Did it call to you?”     
“Call to me, sir?” Tom repeated, confused. “How could a wand call to me?” He asked though he couldn’t deny the weird feeling he had just experienced.       
“ What’s your name, boy?” The man asked as he knelt before the boy to look at him right in his dark eyes.  
“Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle.”   
“Tom Marvolo Riddle. Yew, Phoenix feather core. 13 ½ inches.” He murmured as if he wanted to remember it. “Well, you see, Tom. A wand always chooses the wizard not the other way around. This wand was made with one of the rarest and pickiest cores: a phoenix feather. Very powerful and really stubborn. Plus the yew wood I used to make this wand never chooses a mediocre or a timid owner. If this wand chose you, then, you are destined to do great things. Mark my word.” Tom’s eyes lightened instantly amazed and pleased to finally hear such words and he suddenly smiled so genuinely and so brightly everyone in the room smiled with him.             
Ollivander presented him his wand and he took it in his hand. The warm wood against his cold palm sent him nice shivers down to his spine and he felt an intoxicating sensation flooding his veins. Power.

“ Now. Where were we, young lady?” Ollivander grinned and patted Cecilia’s blond head. She smiled, delighted by the loving touch just like a sweet kitten being petted. A sharp contrast with Tom that Ollivander immediately spotted. “Maybe…” He looked at Tom and looked at Cecilia again before seizing a box that he opened. “Holly, phoenix feather, 11 inches.” Tom’s eyes widened. No way that girl could have a wand like his. He glared at her taking the wand and immediately smirked when the wand left her hand at the first wave. “ I couldn’t be more wrong. You’re giving me a hard time, Cecilia”   
“Sorry.” Out of shame, she hid her beautiful green eyes behind her fringe that cast a dark shadow on her pale face. And suddenly it seemed that all the sadness and tremors the child had been through was now haunting her and devouring her soft childish face. The compassionate wand seller shivered. His luminous face was suddenly very serious and rather grave. The poor girl.

“ I wonder…” He disappeared again and came back with an old damaged black box that looked a bit different than the other boxes in the shop. “Oh” Archibald sounded astounded as he approached that box he knew all too well with his eyes and mouth wide open. Curious, Tom did the same and went to stand by Cecilia who was looking at the box with stress. Ollivander opened the box, removed the red velvet cloth covering the wand and presented it to Cecilia. With a trembling hand, she took it and admired it.     
It was simply splendid, a thin and elegant wand, black as the night but glossy and smooth with a very feminine handle that was ornamented with something that looked like white nacre. The girl smiled and suddenly, despite the coldness of the wood against in her warm hand, she felt so good, so peaceful, as if she was back in her mother’s arm. She loved that wand already.        
“There is an amazing story behind this wand, Cecilia.” Ollivander said but the girl was too lulled by the wand to look at him. “ My grandfather, Gerbold, made it a long time ago when my grandmother, his wife, became afflicted by dragon pox. He thought it could protect her. He made it in fir wood that he always called “the survivor’s wood” because the three wizards who he knew owned a fir wood wand subsequently passed through mortal peril unscathed. And the core … the core is very special. You see, my grandfather wanted my grandmother to fight death and so he placed a very unusual magical substance within the length that I never dare use, a hair coming from a strange animal that many wizards associate with death.”    
“ Thestral” Archibald said and his father nodded.       
“ And if you know your tales, young lady, you should know there is only one other wand that has a core like this one. I suppose this was also a reason why grandfather Gerbold chose to use it.”  
“ What’s a thestral?” Tom asked, interested in the story despite the fact that the gloomy aspect and the story of this wand repelled him.             
“ A black winged horse. Thestrals pull the carriages that lead to Hogwarts or so I’ve read in History of Hogwarts. They are also only visible to those who witnessed … Death” The girl whispered the last word as she realised why she and the wand felt so connected. She was way too acquainted to death despite her young age. She had seen it, too many times and yet Death had never laid a finger on her.           
“ Now you see why it has chosen you?” The girl nodded. “Take care of this wand, Cecilia. And it will protect you.”           
“ Why? Did your grandmother survive her disease thanks to it?” Tom asked genuinely fascinated by the fact that a simple wand could protect you from such a horrible thing as Death.           
“No, but then again, that wand never obeyed her or anyone else for that matter.” It disappointed Tom but reassured him at the same time. A girl like Cecilia having a wand better than his, that would have been the biscuit!     
“ Cecilia Smith, Fir, Thestral tail hair, 12 ¾ inches.” Garrick Ollivander said to himself.  
He wrapped both wands in brown paper, muttering “What a curious day” as he was sure he would remember it forever.

Tom left the shop, Cecilia not far behind him. He didn’t wait for her though and kept on walking until he reached the junction leading to the dark alley he spotted early on. He stopped short and gazed at it for a short while. And suddenly, his feet started leading him into the eerie small street. Like a mosquito attracted by light, Tom didn’t resist and went straight to the dark, one foot at a time. What was there?    
He heard something calling him. A whisper singing to him, singing to seek it, singing to search it, singing that it was so close. The whisper intensified. “Here, here.” And suddenly stopped when a strong hand caught Tom’s arm. “Don’t!!”

Tom turned around and saw Cecilia. She looked worried and terrified. “What are you doing? You can’t be there.” She shouted-whispered as she looked at everything around her, every black corner and anything that could be dangerous. Tom wriggled out of her grip with an annoyed sigh. He was angry. “Why did you follow me?!”          
“This is Knockturn Alley, a very infamous place. It’s not a good thing being seen here. You could get in trouble, or worse” Tom frowned. Trouble was the last thing he wanted especially since he had somehow promised to behave.     
“I thought I heard something. Didn’t you hear something strange too? A whisper or something?” He asked to know if the whispers had been real or just in his head. Cecilia didn’t immediately answer and stared at him, horrified.  
“No.” She sounded suddenly very cold. “And you didn’t hear anything, trust me. Now let’s get out of here. Because the thing I’m sure I’ll soon hear is my aunt’s voice yelling if she sees me …”           
“ What are you two doing up here?” The feminine voice made Cecilia cringe and her aunt Hepzibah appeared from the top of the street as she hid a black box in her purse.     
“ Nothing.” Cecilia simply said. “We … got lost.”          
“ You know you can’t come here! It’s dangerous” Hepzibah shouted. “ I told you both to get acquainted not get into trouble. And I told you, young lady, to wait for me at the junction.” She seized the girl’s arm and pulled her closer to her to drag her back to Diagon Alley.    
They started walking down Knockturn Alley, leaving Tom behind in the dark. And suddenly he heard it again, the whisper hissing to him like a snake and slithering down the street. _Here. Here_. He listened to it becoming more and more unclear. He listened until he couldn’t distinguish the words anymore, until it vanished and Tom was all alone and the only thing he could hear was:

“Come to Borgin and Burkes! Come to see objects with unusual and powerful properties!”

 


	3. “Some were meant to roar, to fly or to dig and some were meant to slither.”

****

**I** t was on the stormy day of September 1st1938 that the adventure of Tom Riddle truly began. And as many adventurers before him, the boy was ready.  
He had left Wool’s Orphanage early this morning without looking back and had headed directly to King’s Cross Station with a determined gait, an unusually enthusiastic smile and two heavy suitcases in hand. Not even the pouring rain had slowed him down though it had soaked him enough to change his clothes once on board of the magnificent red train waiting for him on the enchanted smoky platform 9¾.

From the window of the train compartment he had found a seat in, Tom Riddle was now watching the clock ticking ten to eleven with an impatience he could barely contain while the other children were pushing their trolleys on the platform as fast as they could or hugging and kissing their parents goodbye – a sweet gesture Tom found really childish, annoying and completely incomprehensible. Why crying when destiny calls? He would not miss anyone. That was for sure. Especially not that old cat Mrs. Cole.

With a deep breath and definitely bored, he opened a heavy leathery brown book entitled _Magic: its history from Medieval Times to our days_ and resumed his reading at page sixty-six, which dealt with witch hunting in the fourteenth century.He had found an interest in magic history earlier this week after he had finished _Protection against the Dark Arts_ hidden under his scratchy grey blanket and, ever since, his mind had been troubled with a strange mix of interest, rage and resent for the muggles of that period and numerous questions. Why hiding the wizarding world from muggles? Why were wizards supposed to hide from muggles and not the other way around? And why are wizards perceived as dangerous? Why were wizards persecuted? Why … So many why. But few satisfactory because, if none.

Suddenly, he heard the door compartment open a bit. When he looked up, Tom saw a small boy standing in the entrance. He had golden blond hair combed to the side and a pair of big blue eyes that seemed huge in comparison to his small nose and thin lips. These unusual proportions made him look like some kind of weird rodent.    
The boy cleared his voice. “Sorry, do you mind if I sit here?”            
Tom stared at him and studied him for a quick couple of seconds before he finally faked a polite smile and said, “Not at all”.     
The boy grinned and sat in front of him. Then, with a huge smile that displayed funny long front teeth, he waved at a couple, his parents, standing on the platform. Tom looked out of the corner of his dark eyes and saw that while the boy’s father looked severe and impassive, his mother was crying and was the only one of the two waving back. “She’s highly emotional.” The boy said as he kept waving.    

“My name is Corlenis Avery, by the way.” He extended his hand and Tom shook it with a slightly confused frown that disguised a dark interest for the boy’s family name since he had recently read it in one of his books.  
Indeed, Avery was a famous old name in the wizarding world and history and the Averys were known for being extremely wealthy and influential, though not as much as the Lestranges, the Blacks or even the Malfoys. “Yeah, I know. Weird name. I don’t like it very much.”     
“We have something in common then. I don’t like my name either.” Tom confessed and the blond boy nodded as if he was expecting something. “And your name is …”      
“ Oh, sorry. Tom. Tom Riddle.” He finally said.           
“ It’s not that bad,” Corlenis admitted to reassure Tom. “At least yours is pretty common.”  
“ Yes, that’s why I hate it.” His voice was grave and dark. “There are a lot of Toms.”             
“ Well, how should I call you then? Riddle?” The blond boy suggested in a friendly warm way, an amused smile on his face.      
“Does that mean you want me to call you Avery?” Tom mimicked a smile similar to his. The blond boy nodded, genuinely happy but unaware of Tom’s alternate motives, of the snake slithering on his shoulders.

Tom didn’t care about friendship. He perceived friendship as futile or even as a weakness. What he valued, however, although he had found none at Wool’s Orphanage, were people’s loyalty and devotion. And although he didn’t know exactly why yet, he had the impression he would perhaps need one or two - if not seven - trustworthy persons in his circle, just in case, a precaution. Because if he had retained something from Mr’s Cole history lessons it was that powerful men had always surrounded themselves with loyal followers. King Arthur, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar …           
And Tom was sure of one thing despite his young age. He wanted to be powerful… No … He wanted to be the most powerful. Because to him, power had been created as a mean for men to establish their undeniable superiority on others. Only the weak do not seek power. And he was not weak. He was special, unique.

 “It’s better than Corlenis, that’s for sure.”         
“Sacred twenty-eight, am I right?” Tom asked, knowing already that he was indeed right. “You must be so proud. It is like being nobility.”           
“Yeah!” Avery grinned as he appreciated the flattering recognition. “Wicked, right?” Tom nodded. Yes, it was wicked … and especially worthy of his interest. “What about you?”       
“I don’t know much about myself or my family except that my parents were wizards. I’m an orphan. I’ve been living with muggles all my life.” He lied so brilliantly. None of his words had sounded like a made up story or a recitation meant to gain sympathy and affection, although that’s exactly what it had been.             
“Really? That sounds awful. My father always tells me to stay clear from muggles and mudbloods, huh, muggle-borns, and you …”           
“What’s a mudblood?” Tom cut him short genuinely curious. Avery looked around him, alert and wary, a bit like a mouse, and bent over to whisper. “Another term to characterize muggle-borns, wizards and witches born from non-magical parents. My father often says it when we’re at home but he warned me never to use the term in polite society, so did mum.”  
“But what does it mean?” Tom asked, not really caring about people hearing this conversation.     
“Dirty blood.” Avery murmured so low that Tom almost had to read the words on his lips. “Because muggle-borns are of lower breeding in comparison to us, pure-bloods. We’re superior, better than them. That’s what my father says.” And to Corlenis all words coming from his father’s mouth were the truth. “He also says they shouldn’t even exist or be allowed to practice magic because they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. And some of them, if not all, never heard of Hogwarts before receiving their letter.” Those few sentences had been declared the same way his fathers had dictated them, with the same voice, the same tone and the same gestures. A perfect imitation only an indoctrinated mind that had been hearing this propaganda speech over and over could perform.         
And a bit like Corlenis when he heard those words for the first time, Tom felt shame – though not for the same reason. He had never heard of Hogwarts before meeting Albus Dumbledore. Could that make him like those “mudbloods”? Worthless? He trembled. No! No, he couldn’t be like that!    

“Actually, my father always told me to stay clear of anyone who is not of pure-blood.” Avery started rummaging in his pocket to finally pull out some strange colourful jellybeans. He put a yellow one in his mouth. “Muggle-borns, half-bloods, half-breeds etcetera. He even beat me once when he saw me playing with a half-giant boy in Diagon Alley.” Tom’s eyes widened. The lightness of Corlenis’ words had rooted him to the spot. Yes, he could somehow understand the father’s anger but how could Corlenis not be angry or revolted by that kind of treatment. The first (and only) time Mrs. Cole had taken her hot poker he had hated her for weeks. And he was still very resentful even today.

“Want some?” Avery asked as he opened his hand full of sweets. “Mother always says sweets are a good way to make friends.”      
_Friends_? The word echoed in Tom’s head and he slightly smiled. He stared at Corlenis Avery’s offering hand, seeing something more valuable than sweets.  
“Thank you.” Tom smiled, genuinely thankful, and the small boy poured half a dozen of sweets in Tom’s hand. Poor him. How could he know those last simple silly words and this friendly gesture had just made him enter a game of manipulation he would never escape, a game in which he was just a pawn, a game in which Tom was the only master? How could he know he had just let the snake tighten his coils around his neck?           

Tom had a red sweet. It was delicious. He took time to savour it certainly, because he was not used to eating sweets. There were none at the orphanage because they were too expensive and bad for your teeth. At least those were Mrs Cole’s words.      
“Careful, some have weird tastes. Yesterday, I had one that tasted like earwax… Not that I know how earwax taste, but…” Tom grimaced and thought twice before having another sweet. He ended up putting them in the pocket of his wizard robe.  
“My mother gave me chocolate frogs as well.” Avery showed him a small purple box. “There are cards of famous wizards and witches inside. I have got quite a lot of them at home but there are some I can’t get my hands on. I’m still trying to have all the Hogwarts Founders but for now I only have Helga Hufflepuff.” Avery threw Tom a box and he opened it. However, he almost dropped it when he saw the frog move inside.

The animal leaped and landed on the floor and jumped and jumped again towards the compartment door. Tom, completely amazed, giggled a bit and finally laughed when the person who suddenly opened the compartment to see if there was a place to sit squealed a bit when the chocolate animal hopped between her legs. It was a red-haired girl with high pigtails and brown eyes. “Careful, it can bite you.” Avery joked and the gullible girl ran away, screaming.      
“Poppy, wait!” The boys heard in the corridor and a blond girl with old-fashioned bouncing Victorian curls whom Tom recognized as Cecilia Smith arrived at their door. She sighed and watched the red-haired girl leaving. Then she looked at the boys who were grinning. “ What did you boys scare her with?”  
“ A chocolate frog. A happy accident.” Avery replied as Tom tried to prevent himself from laughing again. “Your friend is not very brave. I can’t wait to see her reaction when she sees the school ghosts”      
“She is a muggle-born. Give it some rest.” With a serious air, she tried to defend her but, eventually, her lips cracked into a thin smile. “A chocolate frog? Really?” She asked, now a bit amused, and Avery shrugged. “Scary, right?”            
“ Merlin’s beard.” She slapped her forehead with her palm. “Poppy!!” And then she walked away to look for her new friend she had just let a few minutes ago on the platform.          
“She seems nice” Avery said as he watched her leave with a soft smile.    

“I’ve got Salazar Slytherin!!” Tom suddenly shouted. Corlenis’ eyes opened wide. He couldn’t believe it.” You’re kidding me, right?”       
“No!” He showed him the green card that displayed a man with a very long beard and a black robe sitting on a chair with a golden locket around his neck and a green setting behind him. “No way!!” Avery was definitely jealous. “What does it say?”         
“ _Salazar Slytherin was the founder of Slytherin house at Hogwarts. He was one of the first recorded Parselmouths, an accomplished Legilimens, and a notorious champion of pure-blood supremacy_.” Tom read out loud with excitement though he didn’t really know why. Actually, he could barely understand the text.      
“ What is a Parselmouth and a Legilimens?”   
“ I don’t know about Legilimens but a Parselmouth is someone who can speak to snakes. It’s a very rare gift, unusual among wizards.”      
Parselmouth. Tom remained silent for a moment as he repeated the name on and on in his head where many exciting thoughts started to fuse. He loved the sound of it, the sweet long hissings. Parselmouth. Parselmouth. He was a Parselmouth.  
He remembered his conversation with Albus Dumbledore back the orphanage. Talking to snakes was unusual but not unheard of. That’s the only words the man had said.  He remembered it had left him rather unsatisfied as well. Could Avery tell him more? He hoped.    
“How unusual?”            
“Extremely. My father only met one Parselmouth in his entire life and he works at the ministry of magic. He sees a lot of wizards every day. However, speaking the language of snakes is perceived as a very bad thing in the wizarding community, especially because of Slytherin’s reputation.”       
“ What reputation?”      
“ Slytherin despised muggles and muggle-borns. He thought only pure bloods should be admitted to Hogwarts and he quarreled about it with the other Hogwarts founders. His opinions were never accepted so he left the school. And eventually, it gave him a very bad reputation.”

Tom found this entire story completely ridiculous. Rejected, hated for stating opinion that made complete sense considering the atrocities the wizards went through because of muggles. It enraged him and he eventually clenched his fists and gritted his teeth in silence. Then, he thought about Dumbledore again, about his hesitating voice when he had admitted he could talk to snakes. He frowned. Of course, Dumbledore had to share the common opinion on Slytherin, on Parselmouths.

 “Personally, I think it must be kind of awesome to talk to snakes or animals in general.” Avery added with enthusiasm, secretly wishing he could have a talent nobody else had.         
“ I think you’re right, Avery. It is kind of _awesome_.” Tom smirked. He suddenly seems rather mischievous. Corlenis didn’t know how to interpret his strange smile. He tried to, for a moment, but then he sensed the entire train thrum. Eleven o’clock. It was time to leave.

_******* _

            The castle was magnificent, as magnificent as Tom thought it would be. The high towers and turrets, the beautiful stained-glass windows, the forest nearby, the cliff and the gleaming lake, the wonderful arches, the green yards, the enormous staircases, the colourful painting, the warm lighting. Tom didn’t know where to look anymore. Incredible. Amazing. Simply magical.

The large door in the entrance hall opened before him with a loud creak and every young student looked at the white-bearded man before them with admiration in their glimmering eyes. “That’s Albus Dumbledore.” Tom said to Avery who was vibrating with excitement and impatience next to him.    
“I know.” His voice sounded suddenly rather croaky and it echoed between the thick stonewalls, catching Dumbledore’s attention. He turned his head towards the boys and nodded to Tom with a faint smile. Avery’s jaw dropped and he stared at Tom. “You know him?”       
“ Yes. He came to my orphanage to tell me I was accepted to Hogwarts.” Tom replied with pride, knowing Avery would be amazed by this anecdote.  
“ But he never does that.” Tom and Avery turned around and saw Rambert Lestrange in a perfectly suiting wizard robe. His cold face was green with envy. “Well, he did for me.” Tom retorted with a smirk. How delightful it was to see Lestrange devoured by jealousy.      
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore finally said. "The start-of-term banquet will begin in an instant, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. As some of you may already know, the four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. The Sorting ceremony is a decisive one for any student entering this school because, while you are here, within Hogwarts, your house will be the closest thing to a family to you for the seven years to come, and there is nothing more important than family. But this, as well as the rules of this school, will be better explained by the houses headmasters and the school prefects. You can’t miss them. They have a badge on their robe with a P on it. And if you don’t spot them, be sure they will see you” He joked and everyone dared chuckle a bit despite the palpable stress. “Now if you may please follow me.”     

The doors opened again and the students followed Albus Dumbledore to a sumptuous common room called the Great Hall. Inside, there were five long tables, one at the back for the teachers and four others for the students who were now looking at the new recruits’ arrival wondering which one of them would soon wear their colours. Above their heads you could see a thousand of lighted candles floating, their flames dancing and glimmering towards a magnificent ceiling that was reflecting the outside starry night sky.           
Their eyes filled with wonder, the first years formed a new line in front of the teachers and the headmaster, an old man called Armando Dippet who stood up to give a welcoming speech that reflected the man’s severity and rigour.  
Then, after that, Dumbledore placed a weird-looking old hat that seemed definitely moth-eaten on a wooden stool. A few seconds later, it started singing leaving Tom rather puzzled, as he was unsure if this was incredible or just ridiculous. After the song, the students understood that the hat would be the one to choose the houses and so they listened to Dumbledore carefully when he started calling their names in alphabetical order.

The first was “Avery, Corlenis”. The blond-haired boy gulped, glanced quickly at Tom and slowly approached the stool. He sat on it, his small blue eyes closed out of fear. Tom watched him, amused but then the hat yelled. “SLYTHERIN!!!” The table on the first years’ left cheered and clapped and Avery joined them with a relieved smile and a funny _phew_ that nearly everyone heard.  He shook a few hands and then waved at Tom with a large grin.    
Then, the sorting hat unsurprisingly put “Black, Alphard” also in Slytherin and everyone watched him being welcomed by everyone at the table, especially by two young girls who had the very same black eyes, black hair and thin smile, his sister Walburga and his cousin Lucretia who had been named in honor of Cecilia’s mother, Lucretia Greengrass, when their mothers were still friends.            
  
Then the name of“Edgecombe, Poppy ” echoed in the room. Few faces turned towards a trembling red-haired girl who was so terrified she couldn’t move. Tom recognized her as the girl from the train who had been scared of the chocolate frog he had let escape. Next to her, Cecilia Smith, whom Tom had spotted among the many students because of her shiny light hair, pushed her as she whispered words of comfort and encouragement in her ear. “Only a mudblood can be that terrified.” Rambert Lestrange mumbled to a dark-haired girl standing by his side. Poppy walked towards the hat and sat on the stool and a few seconds later the hat screamed. “HUFFLEPUFF!” And the second table applauded and shouted.     
“Of course.” Rambert joked with a chuckle. “Losers belong with losers.” The hat kept on sorting students into their houses. Two into Gryffindor, two into Ravenclaw, one into Hufflepuff. Then it was finally time for “Lestrange, Rambert” to be sorted.      
The boy grinned and with an arrogant air and a self-assured gait came to sit where the other students had sat before him. The hat didn’t hesitate and after a couple of seconds on his head quickly claimed “SLYTHERIN!!!”       
It was now time for “McLaggen, Augustus” to join his house. “GRYFFINDOR!” The hat shouted again and the boy swaggered the farthest table with a proud and perfectly white smile. Tom sneered. Lestrange was arrogant but Augustus … There was something about him he hated. He had the feeling the boy had no reason to strut around like that. And then he looked at the Gryffindor table. They looked like a bunch of pathetic wannabe-perfect folks. No, he would not be sorted there. He was sure of it. “I don’t like him either,” Cecilia said, taking Tom by surprise. He hadn’t seen her approaching. “All McLaggens are pompous imbeciles. Everybody knows that.” Tom smiled. He didn’t expect the pure Cecilia to whisper such a thing. “Some of them even pretend to be heirs of Gryffindor. I guess that’s what you do when you have nothing else to glorify your family.”          
“Merrythought, Yolanda” Dumbledore read and smiled.         
“She’s going to be a Ravenclaw. She’s Professor Merrythought’s niece. And Professor Merrythought is head of Ravenclaw” Cecilia murmured to Tom’s ear.      
“What does she teach?” He asked, genuinely curious.            
“Defence against the dark arts. One of the best subjects according to my grandparents. Though I can’t wait for Transfiguration classes. Dumbledore teaches them and he is said to be the greatest wizard of all time.”

“Riddle, Tom” Dumbledore finally called with a smile that perfectly hid his true state of mind which he couldn’t really define – a bit of apprehension, a bit of curiosity, of will of being wrong maybe. “Good luck.” Cecilia whispered but he didn’t need luck.    
Tom approached him with a determined gait and sat comfortably on the stool to wait for the hat to be placed on his head. Slytherin. It would be Slytherin. It couldn’t be anything else. There was no other option and no choices to make. It was his destiny. He was sure of it. So, Dumbledore put the hat over Tom’s head and the second the hat brushed his black hair it shouted “SLYTHERIN!!!” without an ounce of hesitation and louder than he had ever shouted the name before.             
The boy smiled brightly and stood up to join the green table cheering at him and at the same time so impressed by how quick he had been sorted.  
Tom sat down next to Avery and shook a few hands as well. “Congratulations.” “Welcome among us.” Yes, for once, things were right. And by the stool, Dumbledore scratched his beard, unsurprised, while a weird feeling formed a knot in his guts.

A few minutes later, “Rowle, Mellony”, a girl with perfect olive skin and freckles, was also made a Slytherin and she sat in front of Tom and next to Lestrange as she winked towards the Black girls sitting not far away. “I like this table already.” She declared with a happy grin.         
“Yes, the best of the scared twenty-eight is now here.” Lestrange added in pride. “Can’t believe you made it here though, Riddle. The hat barely touched your head as if …” He didn’t finish his sentence because finishing it would make him complementing Tom and Rambert Lestrange was not of the complimentary kind.     
“Aw, don’t be sad Lestrange. You almost made it to Hufflepuff. That happens.” Tom smirked to tease him and both Avery and Mellony Rowle laughed at him.

“Smith, Cecilia” Dumbledore said as only three children were left before him. “Talking about Hufflepuff.” Avery said as he watched Cecilia slowly and unsurely walking towards Dumbledore and the sorting hat. “Did you know that all the Smith had been sorted into Hufflepuff for generations? Some say they descend from the line of Helga Hufflepuff”    
“Of course. Everybody knows that.” A brown hair boy replied with a cold voice. He looked very tall and a bit too sturdy for his young age. “That’s why no one place bets on them, or the Weasleys, or the Potters or anyone coming from a sacred twenty-eight family.”            
“Bets?” Tom asked with a frown. The boy showed a large number of sweets in his inside pocket with a proud smirk. “I bet you would be with us. Mulciber, however, he thought you would be in Ravenclaw.”    
“You have the top-of-the-class face. It’s not my fault.” His green eyes sparkling with mischief, the boy called Mulciber displayed a large bright smile and extended his hand towards Tom who shook it. He had a firm handshake. “I’m Theron Mulciber and that jerk over there is Odalric Nott and this is Eugene Rosier. And if you want you can bet with us” Tom smiled.     
“ I have not much to bet with.” Tom admitted with an apologetic smile. “Then just help us win, newbie.”   
“ Tom Riddle.” He corrected, absolutely disliking the word “newbie”.

“ Sorry to interrupt but I may place a bet on Cecilia Smith after all.” Walburga Black said as she discreetly put three candies on the table. “What? She hasn’t been sorted yet?” Nott whisper-shouted in shock, his usually impassive brown eyes wide open. “No way!”           
Tom looked back at Cecilia who had hidden her eyes under the hat. She didn’t look so well. “How long as it been?” Mulciber asked the Black girls.  
“ More than three minutes.” Lucretia answered to Mulciber, Rosier and Nott’s disbelief.       
“ She wouldn’t be an hatstall.” Nott whispered and everybody looked at each other with confusion.             
“ A what?” asked Avery when he understood no one would dare ask what a hatstall was. “A student that takes more than five minutes to be sorted into a house because the hat doesn’t know where to put them. It’s very rare.” Nott replied.           
“ Did you talk to her? Where could she be sorted?” Mulciber asked Avery with impatience in his voice, finding the situation incredibly exciting.            
“ Where do you want her to be sorted? She is a Smith. The hat is just messing with her because she is a fragile little girl.”           
“ I’m not so sure about that.” Tom whispered as he kept staring at Cecilia, remembering the day he saw her get her wand and what old Ollivander had told her. She was a survivor.      
“ I stay on Hufflepuff. Black?” Nott said.          
“ Same.” Lucretia joined her sister. And then Mulciber placed five candies on the table and a chocolate frog. “Ravenclaw. She looks top-of-the-class too.”  
“ Then you’re going to lose, mate.” Rosier threw six candies on the table.

Two new sweets suddenly rolled towards the others “ Slytherin.” Tom said with a smile. Everybody laughed in silence. “ You can’t be serious. No way she’s one of us.”   
“ Why would you even think that?” Lestrange glowered and Tom smirked. “Intuition.” The orphan simply said.     

“And she’s officially an hatstall. Five minutes!” Rosier shouted as he put a weird golden pocket watch on the wooden table.        
“This is far better than the gossiping pages of the Gazette.” Mellony bit her lips and clapped her hands overly excited.

“It has to be Hufflepuff. It has to be Hufflepuff. It has to be Hufflepuff.” Cecilia whispered, again and again, green eyes closed and her small hands clenching her witch robe. “Hufflepuff, again?” The hat replied with a sly voice she found rather scary. “Again, I’m not sure Hufflepuff is the right house for you. Sure you are kind-hearted, rather honest and loyal but I also sense a lot of ambition and determination which are definitely the qualities Salazar Slytherin cherished.”  
“ No. I can’t be Slytherin. You don’t understand. They’ll reject me … again!” Cecilia confessed with fear and tears in her eyes. “I have to prove them wrong. I must.”   
“ Determination and ambition. So obvious.” The hat laughed. “Don’t you see it, girl?” Yes she could see it and somehow, she wasn’t surprised by the hat’s intentions to sort her into Slytherin house. She just couldn’t let that happen. “Plus, there is Slytherin blood in your veins.”           
“ From the Greengrass family.” She quickly replied. “A family that didn’t even bother to take me in when my parents died. I am a Smith.” The hat snickered.  
“You have such a desire to be loved. And you are so ready to do anything to earn that love. A Slytherin trait.” The hat stated as he searched into her mind. “Do you really think your grandparents would love you more if you were made a Hufflepuff?” She didn’t reply with the same certainty this time. Of course they wouldn’t love her more but at least they would stop saying all hurtful terrible things about her. “They know you are not a Hufflepuff. I know it too and a part of you knows it, Cecilia. Accept it and accept who you are. Trust me.”             
“ Please.” She begged.            
“ One day. You’ll thank me for this.” She shook her head.      
“ SLYTHERIN !!!!”


	4. “It was the story of a snake in a garden of flowers”

**Y** ears had passed since our two children made their first steps into their new magical home and through those years they had the chance to discover the wonders their new lives had to offer them. Joy. Friendship. Success. Knowledge.    
Tom and Cecilia had grown up and they had thrived … their own way… the way Destiny had decided to.          

It was spring. Birds were singing in their nests and bees were foraging in the flowers that were blooming in Hogwarts’ green yards while the high and large laurels Professor Beery had enchanted this winter were growing and blossoming in unusual shades of white and pastel blue, pink and purple.   
But even though Destiny’s brother, Time, hadn’t been able to take care of those trees he had been very generous to Tom.          
He was fifteen now, just like most four-year students but he was by far the most handsome and certainly the smartest. His head was crowned with jet-black locks, as black as the night, so black they could have made the blackest ravens envious and his eyes had turned into two beautiful onyxes shining in the middle of his pale face that had lost his childish shape like a snake changes its skin. High cheekbones, strong jawline, proud stature, he was the dark prince from his never-ending tale, a young Adonis attracting loads of young girls - and boys – filled with raging hormones begging for physical contact. They were following him like bees following honey, gushing about him, his good looks, his cleverness and the aura of nobility and mystery floating around him.        
But he didn’t care about bees. Their yellow and black stripes looked silly to him. He only liked snakes and their silvery green scales. But there was no true snake in the school beside him, just small lizards. And so he secretly chose to only have eyes for no one but himself, becoming the entitled Narcissus instead of the rose and myrtle crowned Adonis people thought he was.  
Nevertheless, being indifferent to beauty didn’t mean he couldn’t spot one when he saw it.

Cecilia, who once was a small bud hidden in a garden of roses, had turned into the most magnificent blooming flower. She had cut her bangs to reveal the beautiful peridots in her eyes and the soft shape of her perfectly oval face. She was learning to embrace her femininity and to take pride in the nascent curves of her new body the same way she had learned this beauty, as advantageous as it was, was merely just a petal of the flower she was becoming.           
But unlike roses, she hadn’t grown thorns to protect herself not because she didn’t know how but because she didn’t want it to. Cecilia was the flower wanting to be picked. She wanted to be smelt. She wanted to be admired. She wanted to be loved. Thus, loved and admired she was as much as cherished, worshipped, envied, fancied. And yet, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. She was eternally unsatisfied.     
And even now, sitting in the wild green grass by the forbidden forest, all charmed eyes on her, a smile on her face and the sweet Poppy Edgecombe by her side braiding her silvery hair with fresh white flowers and laurel leaves; she knew that she wasn’t truly happy.

“Good morning everyone!” Coming out of the forest, Professor Kettleburn approached with an enthusiastic gait and a bright smile that cracked his face in small wrinkles.           
“Good morning, professor!” The students greeted together not even half as cheerful as him.           
Silvanus Kettleburn was a very strange and rather eccentric man with a fascination so intense for magical creatures he had decided to teach Hogwarts students how to take care of them. His nomination as a teacher had made tongues wag a lot especially because of the man’s recklessness. Indeed, he never bothered with security and by the age of forty-two, he had already amassed thirty-eight probations, the last one thanks to Mrs. Genevieve Avery who had gone berserk after learning that her son had been attacked by Cornish pixies in third year.     
Nevertheless the blond-haired man was a very clever professor and his lessons, despite being a bit scatterbrain and often dangerous, were genuinely interesting.  
“If you may follow me.” He gestured his students to follow him towards the forbidden forest but none of them obeyed. They stood still. Headmaster Dippet had always made clear that no student was allowed in the forest. “Come on, folks. Don’t be scared.” He insisted.        
“But isn’t it forbidden professor?” Avery dared ask.      
“A Slytherin who wants to follow the rules? That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard in my whole career.” The professor clicked his tongue and this time his students did as he said. Lestrange wrapped his arm around Avery’s shoulders and tousled his blond hair with a mocking laugh as he forced him to follow the group. “Wussy baby Corlenis” He sang.            
“Shut up!” Avery pushed him and the boy snickered again as he kept walking proud as a peacock. He slightly jostled Cecilia on the way, which made her glower at him. “Oops sorry, Queen Victoria” He mimicked the flowers in her hair with a grin and the girl raised an eyebrow, finding his attitude more than ridiculous. Hopefully, it was short-term as Lestrange stopped like a scared animal. “Merlin’s …” He almost cursed and immediately hid behind Tom who had chosen to stay away from the boy and his childishness.

In front of him, there was a gigantic terrifying animal that started growling when it spotted the students. It had a lion’s head, a goat’s body and a dragon’s tail and it was tied to a large tree with a thick heavy chain. The students recognized it as being a chimaera, a beast Kettleburn was used to talking about because he had lost half of his left leg while studying them in Greece – a worthwhile sacrifice according to him since it had allowed him to work with the famous Magizoologist, Newt Scamender.       
“I assume you know what that magnificent creature is…” He declared with an enthusiasm that was far from contagious.   
“It is a chimaera.” Poppy Edgecombe answered with a trembling voice that made Rambert Lestrange snicker. “Sissy mudblood” He whispered discreetly to Avery next to him who briefly smiled in return.           
 “I’m sorry. Aren’t you the one who just hid behind Riddle? And I’m not even talking about that time with the pixies last year when you almost peed your fancy pants.” Rambert’s eyes widened and he glared at Cecilia Smith who hadn’t even bothered to turn around to defend her friend.   
“Nobody is talking to you, … hatstall!” He whisper-shouted and the girl laughed. “That insult again? Is that the only one you know?”        
Lestrange mumbled, looking for something to reply. Yet, nothing came. “Merlin’s beard, it is the only one you know.” She faked an over-dramatic shocked air as she finally turned around to look at his confused face. And by his side, Tom Riddle smirked, amused by her sass. She noticed it and looked away to blush without him noticing it.

 “Can you tell me what kind of animal the chimaera is?” Kettleburn asked and a Ravenclaw student raised her hand “It is a hybrid.”        
“Excellent, Miss Merrythought. But what is a hybrid?” The teacher looked through the crowd in search of a student that would have the answer to his question. When his eyes lay upon Cecilia, he smiled and invited her to answer. “It is a creature born from two different breeds. The word hybrid comes from the Latin word _hybrida_ which was the word used to name an animal born from a tame sow and a wild boar but also the child born from a freeman and a slave which rendered the connotation of the word rather offensive.” The professor nodded, encouraging her to continue. “We count a lot of hybrid species in the world but the chimaera is the most unique since it is the only crossing of three species which makes us believe it was created by using magic and not naturally.”      
“Couldn’t say better myself! Ten points for Slytherin.” The cheerful professor declared impressed by his student’s knowledge. Avery tapped Cecilia’s shoulder to congratulate her. Both had become very good friends since their first year and despite Mr Avery’s belief that the Smith girl should be avoided.

“ Does anyone as examples of hybrids? Mr Avery?” Corlenis’ eyes widened and he gulped. “Any idea?”     
“ The hippogriff?” Avery declared though he was not sure at all.       
“ You should spend less time courting Miss Smith and more time studying Mr Avery.” The mockery made the students laugh and Avery’s cheeks turned red. Cecilia giggled in silence, flattered but lucid. She knew Avery had eyes only for one person and that person wasn’t her. However, she stopped smiling when she spotted two Slytherin girls whispering about her and even though she couldn’t hear what they were saying she had an idea.       
“ So, any examples of chimaera?”      
Tom’s hand raised and with a beautiful, calm and controlled voice he said: “Quite a lot actually, professor. The kneazle, for instance, is half cat. The frog-rabbit is … what it is.” The students laughed slightly. “There is also the cobra-lily which is one of the rarest animal-plant hybrid and the snallygaster too.”  
“Perfect.” Kettleburn was once again impressed but Tom wasn’t finished yet  
“Some research also characterizes Half-Breeds as being hybrids since they share their human blood with for instance either veela’s blood or elf’s blood or giant’s blood.”  
“But Half-breed is …”    
“Highly offensive.” Tom finished the professor’s sentence and the man smiled. “Slytherin is on fire today. Again, ten points for your house. And I should maybe consider giving my resignation letter to Headmaster Dippet. I’m sure Miss Smith and Mr Riddle would make excellent teachers.”          

Both took the compliment with an immense pride though becoming a COMC teacher was in neither of their plans.         
Indeed, even if Tom fancied to teach at Hogwarts after finishing his studies, there was only one subject that interested him: defence against the dark arts. It was the most interesting class in the whole curriculum to his mind and it was so much better than care of magical creatures. Plus, he didn’t like animals. They were all stupid to him. He had only taken the class because he wanted as many electives as possible in his schedule to achieve as many O.W.Ls as possible. And between care of magical creature and muggle studies, the choice was simple.      
Cecilia, however, didn’t really know what to do after Hogwarts and had not much thought about it. Working at Hogwarts as Transfiguration teacher? Why not. That was her favourite subject. Working at the Ministry? Her grandparents would certainly (hopefully?) like that very much.  But then again, she would be sixteen in only a few weeks; she had plenty of time to decide what to do with her life.

“Certainly the best idea of his ‘career’. Too bad he’s not serious about it.” Lestrange whispered in his green and silver wool scarf and Avery laughed discreetly.              
“ Do you have any questions?”            
“Yes, professor” Poppy Edgecombe raised her hand. “Since half-giant and half-veela are somehow considered hybrids, does the term apply to muggle-borns and half-bloods?” The question caught a lot of people’s attention, especially Tom’s who looked at the teacher with a well-hidden apprehension.         
“Very interesting question, Miss Edgecombe. But very delicate to answer.” He cleared his voice and stayed silent for a while, thinking of his answer. “Muggle-borns have never been considered as hybrids.”          
“No, they are just nature’s biggest mistakes.” Lestrange murmured and again Avery snickered, louder this time. This time, Tom elbowed him and glared. “You both should speak even louder. How many times must I say that this is not something to say in public?”     
“Sorry.” Avery looked down, ashamed while Lestrange remained silent, keeping his teeth gritted and his jaw tight. Tom noticed and he glowered even more until the boy looked away, knowing it was the best thing to do.       

“ … They come from two muggle parents so there is no cross-breeding. Half-blood, however… Well, searchers share different opinions. Since some of them believe that muggles are of a different species like elves or giants, they tend to believe that half-bloods are indeed “hybrids”. But other searchers who strongly believe that having magic doesn’t change your breed refuse to characterize half-bloods as hybrids.”         
“ What’s your opinion about it, professor?” Lestrange’s voice was defying as if he was ready to judge the professor depending on his response.    
“ Well, if the world starts to divide humankind into different species depending on their blood then I’m scared for the world.”      
“ That’s what Grindelwald is doing in a way, isn’t that right, sir?” Kettleburn frowned, troubled and a bit annoyed by the conservation and Lestrange’s antagonizing tone. “Indeed. That is what he is trying to do. But let me tell you one thing Lestrange. We cross breeds for one reason: evolution.  Just look at this chimaera. Doesn’t she look more ferocious than a lion or fierier than a dragon or more tempered than a goat? Hybrids are an improvement. Only blind people don’t see it.” Lestrange frowned but the student who fumed the most wasn’t him. It was Tom Riddle, who, behind his stone-cold expressionless face, was hiding a terrible rage.             
“ Now who wants to pet that wonderful animal?”

*******

“ I hate this teacher! And I hate that mudblood lover as well.” Lestrange spat as he walked down the stairs leading to the dungeons along with Avery and Tom. “I still can’t believe she is a Slytherin!”              
“Are you seriously talking about Cecilia, again?” Corlenis was exasperated.  
“Yes, I am. That girl is a blood traitor. And the way she acts, like a little princess.” He growled and Avery looked at Tom who seemed not to pay attention. “Look at me, I’m so perfect. I have flowers in my hair.” His voice echoed in the corridor as he pretended to be Cecilia, taking a high-pitched girly tone and acting in an over-exaggerated girlish manner. “This girl is a pain in the arse.”             
“You think that because you don’t know her.”  
“Sorry, I forgot you two were friends. Do you braid her hair like Poppy Edgedumb?” Avery sighed. “Or do you play in her knickers like McLaggen?” He teased. “Oh no, my bad, girls knickers aren’t your thing, wussy baby Corlenis.” Avery stopped, suddenly furious. He was about to rush on Lestrange when Tom grabbed his arm to calm him down. “Enough, Avery. And you, stop it.” His voice was firm but Lestrange chuckled nevertheless.  
“ What? Only the truth hurt. You love cocks and your best-friend plays doctors and nurses with the Quidditch players.”      
Suddenly, Lestrange chocked on his chuckle. Tom had violently caught his grey jacket to push him against the wall. “I said, stop it.” His voice was low yet grave and menacing and his face was so close to Rambert’s the rich boy could sense Tom’s hot and raspy breath on his skin and tremble at the view of the orphan’s dark scary eyes. Rambert looked away, defeated, and glowered at Avery. “Always needing someone to defend you, Avery.” He shouldered out of Tom’s grasp with a sneer.       
“ You don’t know shit, Lestrange.” The blond boy quickly walked away towards the common room and Lestrange snickered one last time as he watched him leave. But when he tried to laugh with Tom, he realised his friend was still pretty angry.     
“You’re an asshole.” Tom declared with his usual calm. “No, but I’m sure Avery wished I were.” He chuckled. Tom shook his head and showed a clean pair of heels. He had had enough with Rambert’s idiocy for today.              
“ Where are you going?”          
“ The library.”  
“ At this hour, Merlin’s beard, you’re no fun, Riddle.” He yelled through the corridor.            
“ I guess we don’t have the same definition of fun, Lestrange.” Tom declared as he left the corridor under the eyes of two second-year Slytherin girls who gazed at him and giggled as he passed near them. He didn’t even peek at them and simply climbed the stairs.   
“ Clearly.” Lestrange murmured.

***

Tom didn’t head to the library as he told Lestrange. Instead, he went to the boy’s lavatory on the first floor knowing it would likely be empty at this hour of the day. “Colloportus” The door behind him closed with a loud bang and locked itself.             
Tom approached the sinks and opened all the taps using his wand. Then he sat on the cold floor and listened to the water pouring loudly, filling the washbasins and overflowing in a cascade onto the floor and on the boy’s head, wetting his hair, face and clean clothes. But he didn’t seem to care. On the contrary, he let the water flow on him enjoying the cool sensation on his face as he stayed focused on the never-ending melody of the water running, falling, sloshing, on and on and on.    
And for a moment, he wished he were just like water. Eternal. Pure.

Those two words echoed in his head, drowning it in a rage his usual impeccable dam of phlegm couldn’t contain anymore. His eyes flash opened. They were just darkness, animosity and pain and his hatred sprang in a loud powerful scream that escaped his mouth and made the room tremble.           
BANG … SPLASH       
The mirrors broke. The taps burst. Water squirt up to the ceiling. Large thick fragments of glass fell on the floor. They broke immediately into tiny million pieces.             
Tom sniffed. Tears were running down his pale cheeks and it was impossible to confuse them with the droplets of water flowing on his face reddened by anger. They were too big and not as limpid.             
When the boy spotted them, along with his distorted reflection, in the pieces of mirrors shattered on the floor, he found himself ugly, disgusting, dirty. He moaned and with an uncontrollable impulsivity he didn’t even see coming he grabbed a piece of mirror and dashed it on the door that someone was trying to open. “Out!” He shouted and the handle stopped moving.     
The boy hid his face in his hands, finding comfort in darkness and confinement. There he could smell and taste the blood in his hands. He hadn’t realise he had cut himself. The liquid was salty. It was like smelling rusted iron. Sickening. Distasteful. Disgusting. But after all, wasn’t his blood disgusting? Wasn’t it?

“Damn you!!!” He shouted the words hoping they were loud enough for the recipient to hear, wherever he was in this world, if he were still in this world and he hoped he was. He hoped he were to find him and kill him. Kill him for ruining his life, for making it a lie, for making him be proud of a name that was just filth and dirt.           
The Riddle name was nothing. He was nothing.        
His father, the man he had been honoured to be named after, was a loathsome muggle. His mother was a weak witch who had succumbed to death. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t noble. He came from vermin.        
His hopes, his dreams were reduced to ash and he was chocking on it. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think straight. There was just hate and suffering, dark thoughts crawling in his veins, in his foul veins.         
He clenched his fists, digging his nails in his palm, carving the cuts even more to watch the blood fall and redden the water around him, knowing he couldn’t get rid of it without getting rid of himself.       
He was cursed.

Tom suddenly jumped. He had sensed something touch his shoulder. When he dared look he saw he wasn’t alone anymore.      
Cecilia Smith was standing in front of him, as wet as him and she was staring at him with a compassion that left him confused.              
“Get out” He hissed breathlessly but she didn’t care. Instead, she knelt in the water, among the shattered glass, under the water still raining.         
“Didn’t you hear me?” She did but pretended she didn’t.       
“You should calm down.” She simply said and Tom glowered at her.          “Can I tell you a story?”            
“What?” He harrumphed but she took his hand and started caressing his skin with her fingertips. Tom scowled at first but then without really knowing why, he watched her draw invisible waves and curved lines in the palm of his hand with a frown.    
“When I was little, I would sometimes have … breakdowns, if we can call them that … but at home, there was no one to comfort me. So I would tell myself a story of a little snake crawling in a garden among the flowers.”         
Tom frowned finding her behaviour childish and too familiar. Nevertheless, she kept on talking, narrating the little story she had invented as a child, her fingers still tracing shapes in Tom’s palm. “The snake is in a garden. It’s slithering in the green grass when it spots a tall yew tree. It climbs in it and watches its realm. It is immense and so green. From one branch the snake can see so many colourful flowers. Red, White, Pink. From another, it can see myrtle trees and something afar. A forest. The snake is curious. It falls from the tree…” She paused. Her finger seemed hesitating. It remained still for a couple of seconds. “…right up onto the knees of a little girl who was crying. She catches it, pets it and tells it to stay in the garden, that the wilderness is dangerous but it replies ‘The wilderness is not dangerous. I am.” And so, it leaves.” She stopped her caress as she reached the tip of his index and as she did Tom realised he had found his inner calm again.   
“Much better.” She smiled and let go of his hand.      
“What happens then?” Tom asked thinking that the tale lacked a proper ending. “I don’t know. Whatever you like.” Cecilia shrugged and gestured Tom to give her his other hand. He gently obeyed wondering what she would do next. She pulled her wand from her robe and pointed it towards Tom’s bleeding hand. “Ferula” Bandages appeared and wrapped tightly around his hand. “There. That should do it”        
“Thank you.” The sincerity of his gratefulness made the girl smile at Tom in a way no one had ever smiled at him. It was something pure, something reassuring or compassionate, perhaps even loving. He couldn’t find the proper adjective to describe it and he was sure it was something he would never be able to imitate.              
“You’re welcome.” She whispered as she got up.        
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what was happening to me?” Tom asked, genuinely surprised she was ready to leave without questioning him.           
“Only if you want to talk about it.” He remained silent and she gave him a last faint smile before leaving him alone again.

Tom smiled too in a weird innocent way that left him a bit confused though rather well. And when he spotted a flower on the flooded floor, floating in the water he grabbed it and quickly stood up to run away from the room, casting a mending spell as he closed the door behind him.         
“ Cecilia!!” He shouted and the girl stopped. Almost breathless, he opened his hand to reveal the water-pearled flower. “You lost it”       Cecilia touched her hair looking for the flower in her light strands. It was indeed gone.           
“ Keep it. It’s a laurel flower. Only the great wear it.” She delicately placed it in Tom’s dark hair, loving how the deep green leaves suited his jet-black locks. “And you’re a great person, Tom. Don’t ever forget it.”          
“ Why are so nice to me? We’re not friends.”   
“ Because I know how it is to feel down.” He frowned at her, wondering what she truly meant. He opened his mouth to ask her but was suddenly interrupted by Theron Mulciber in his green Quidditch robes.          
“ What are you two doing up here?” He adjusted the broom on his broad shoulder and suspiciously glanced at both of them. “Is that a flower in your hair?” Quickly, Tom grabbed the laurel in his hair. “It’s nothing.” He threw it away without even a bit of hesitation and Cecilia watched it fall on the floor as if it had meant nothing.            
“Right. It’s nothing.” The girl didn’t even try to hide her bitterness and the second she looked up at Tom again she sarcastically smiled at him. “So was my help” And she stormed off without saying another word.      
“ What was that about, Riddle?” Mulciber’s voice was torn apart between confusion and humour. “Have you been having fun with Smith? Did she give a _helping_ hand if you know what I mean?” He played with his broom in an obscene disgusting way, caressing it up and down. “Is that what she meant by _her help_?” He perversely winked.        
Tom glared and Theron instantly lost his oafish cheekiness. “Sorry.”             
“You better be.” The older boy gulped and looked down at the floor. “You’re bleeding.” He pointed at Tom’s hand.

Droplets of thick red blood were dripping one by one onto the cold stone floor. The bandage Cecilia had cast was gone, as gone as she were, as gone as the friendship she had offered Tom. And a boy who couldn’t care less about friendship felt a spine in his heart for no one had ever turned his back on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are still enjoying the story. The pace is still very slow I know but I think that some parts of Tom Riddle's life, despite lacking of actions and thrill and horrors, must still be told.  
> But, don't worry, fifth year is coming and with it a lot of plot twists.  
> And yes, I use symbolism and mythology quite a lot ;-)


	5. “Dreams and omen are not to be taken lightly.”

 

It was past curfew. The orphanage was silent and dark. Alone in his small room, Tom opened the door discreetly to be sure Mrs Cole was not wandering the corridor with a glass of brandy in hand in search of children who should be sleeping in their room. Fortunately, no one was there. Not even a rat.  
At last.  
He closed back the door with a creak that made him grimace.         
 “Lumos” The tip of his wand shone like a bright star and, with a small gesture of the hand, the light ascended to the ceiling to illuminate the room in shades of blue.       
Tom opened the drawer of his desk and took a small folded piece of parchment. He opened it and looked at the numerous letters he had written last night in it. He grabbed the quill and resumed his writing.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

Reading his own name made him shiver and he gritted his teeth in disgust and anger. He hated it. He hated it so much. He hated seeing it. He hated hearing it. He hated everything about it. Now more than ever.   
He crossed out a few letters with a squint.

 _Rid_.

He turned his name in new names.

 _Marvel_.

But none seemed to fit him. None resembled the person he wanted to be, the person he truly was.   

So he drew a line through his name again, though unable to actually get rid of it. And he wrote it again. And writing it was torture, as if the quill was scarifying his skin and hurting him. But when he was looking at his pale skin, it looked perfectly fine, unscathed and smooth as silk, simply beautiful, unlike his mind where something terrible and dark was growing more and more each day, discreetly, silently, without him knowing it.  
And yet he could not deny the signs. He could feel his brain messing with him. He could feel it in the names on the old paper mocking him, laughing, telling him he was stuck with his filthy muggle's father name forever. And they infuriated him, enraged him.   
He stared at them with devouring anger, watched them turn into sadistic smiles. They weren’t real. He knew it. They were a mere reaction to tiredness or a lack of air, hallucinations due to being confined in this tiny suffocating room. Soon they would be gone.

With a sudden growl, Tom crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it against the window nearby without even looking. But the loud weird thumb made him jump on his chair. He frowned at the window, surprised. The paper was on the floor but there was a large stain of blood on the pane.  
The boy got up of his chair slowly and approached the window, frowning at the red liquid flowing along the glass. He touched it, but did not felt it on his pale long fingers. The blood was outside.

He turned the knob and opened the window only to see a black bird lying on the sill, bleeding, shaking, breathing hard, dying. It couldn’t move. His black eyes were staring at the night sky. It was panicking, petrified.      

Tom sat by its side and observed it, wondering what he should do with it, wondering what it meant. Was it an omen? A portent? Some sign of fate? Was it magic? A message sent by jealous Death herself to warn him not to reach grandeur? After all, weren’t ravens her servants? Representations of Death? Flights of Death?  
Tom smiled, finding irony in the situation before him. _Flights of Death?_ More like _dying flight_. He thought as he gazed at the crying bird turning colder, a smile on his lips.  
Or maybe that dying bird meant something else. T _he death of Death_ herself. Tom's smile grew larger. He liked this idea even more _…_

 _More…more_ … _Mort? … Death …Mort?_

His twisted exhausted mind suddenly whispered in his head.

_Mort_

The French word strangely echoed in his head.

_Mort? Mort? Mort? Become more than Mort. More than Death. More than Mort. Steal death. Flight from death. Steal, flight. In French, vol. Vol. Mort. Vol. Mort. Vol. Mort._

  
Those were the only two words in his head now. Vol and Mort. Flight. Steal. Death. Wonderful words.  
They made Tom grin and his whole body began to tremble in excitement, his blood rushing through his veins like warm waves, like waves of pleasure. It felt so good. That sound. He loved it. It was perfect, delightful. It was him.

“Nox.” The room turned dark and soon, Tom’s wand spat fire, burning the name Tom Marvolo Riddle in the air and turning it into another one, a name that all wizards would one day fear more than death when Tom shall become the greatest sorcerer of all time.

_I am Lord Voldemort._

_The sorcerer that shall escape death. The heir of Salazar Slytherin He who must not be named._

***

 “Cecilia! CeeCee!” A high-pitched voice squealed on platform 9 ¾. The girl in a pretty chartreuse shirtwaist dress turned over, a foot already on the train running board, only to see her dear aunt Hepzibah trotting about towards her; her old-fashioned ginger Victorian curls bouncing at every step and a weird sheet-covered box under her arm. “There you are.” She was out of breath and her plump face was red like a tomato. She put down the parcel on the platform, caught her breath for an instant, her hands on her knees, and breathed deeply. “Merlin’s beard, I thought I would never be there on time. I so wanted to see you before leaving for Hogwarts.” She caught her niece’s face between her hands and kissed her cheeks loudly, leaving stains of red lipstick on her pale skin.        
“ You didn’t have to, Auntie Zi.” Cecilia smiled as the woman got her fingers wet with a bit of saliva to rub the lipstick off her face. “Nonsense!” She clicked her tongue and finally handed her the mysterious box. “That’s for you.”             
Cecilia took it and unveiled it only to reveal a scared small Birman kitten with blue eyes staring at her, begging her to get it out of its cage. The girl smiled, deeply moved by the little animal. Poor little thing. Her aunt must have been shaking it for hours. “The vendor said that breed was very affectionate. I hope you like her.”            
“ I do. Very much.”  She touched the cat’s little black muzzle and then rubbed her small cream-coloured body against the cage since the cat was purring to be patted even more. “But again, you didn’t have to.”     
“ It’s a gift. Something to congratulate you… My dear school prefect. I’m so proud of you.” Hepzibah Smith pinched Cecilia’s cheek with a wide smile that suddenly turned into a bittersweet one rather quickly.  
The soft cheek of her beloved niece was not as tender and plumb as it used to be, not as childish. She realised how much the little girl she had escorted to Diagon Alley five years ago to pick her school supplies had grown into a young girl far more beautiful than she had ever been. A tear rolled along her rosy face as she missed her youth and envied what her niece had.      
“Oh Auntie Zi …” She wiped the tears from her cheek with a sympathetic smile, hoping to comfort her. It didn’t.   
“Why did the world make you so pure?” Hepzibah kissed the girl’s hand, leaving her confused. Awkwardness fell on both women’s shoulders as they stared at each other. Fortunately, the train whistled again to both of their relief. “Sorry, auntie Zi but …”      
“I know. I know. Time to go.” She cut her short and adjusted the green pin on the girl’s dress. “Prefect.” She repeated clapping her hands with an almost hysterical joy immediately replacing her sorrowful bitterness that Cecilia chose to forget.  
After all, Aunt Hepzibah, despite being a lunatic and sometimes rather depressing widow, was certainly the only one in the Smith family that was proud of her and that was giving her niece the admiration and the recognition she had desperately been longing for. “See you soon, my buttercup.” She waved and the girl got on the train, feeling suddenly so much better.

Once in front of the Prefects’ compartment door, Cecilia stared at the students inside through the tiny window to see if she could recognize some of them.  
The Hufflepuffs were already there as well as the Ravenclaws. She easily recognized Yolanda Merrythought and Archibald Olivander. The Gryffindors were there too and even though she couldn’t clearly see their faces she could recognize their loud voices laughing at Septimus Weasley’s terrible jokes from outside the compartment meaning Augustus McLaggen, who would have definitely stolen the show had he been here, hadn’t been chosen as prefect by Dumbledore after all.           
Cecilia snickered as she imagined him boiling in a regular compartment right now since Augustus had spent the entire fourth year telling everyone he would be prefect.

“ You’re going to enter or stay here until we arrive at Hogwarts?” Cecilia slightly jumped and turned around, slowly. She knew who that was. Tom Marvolo Riddle, obviously.        
She looked at him right in his deep dark eyes, which apart from reflecting their usual attractive mystery, was showing scorn and annoyance. It made Cecilia frown with disdain, a habit she had taken months ago after what had happened in the first-floor lavatory.              
“ Good morning, Riddle. I guess someone should teach you the word ‘sorry’.” Her words were pure sharp sarcasm but he remained silent nevertheless, staring at her, finding her ridiculous. “Here, let me spell it for you.” She took her wand and wrote the word in the air with a cheeky smile on her face. The letters appeared bright as tiny shiny stars but didn’t stay there for too long since Riddle smirked and made the word fade with a wave of his wand. “Of course, Slughorn had to choose you.” And with those simple words, he opened the door and entered the compartment holding his head high, looking like the perfect archetype of the tall brooding handsome boy that you read in those muggles books, breathing nobility and a burning pride.

Tom was immediately welcomed by sixth-year student Theron Mulciber who had kept him a place by his side like Cerberus keeps the gates of Hell. Theron looked really strong and manly, with a tall, buff and athletic stature that could have made people believe he had giant’s blood in his veins hadn’t his family been classified as one of the sacred twenty-eight. And yet, next to Tom Riddle, the chestnut-haired Quidditch captain’s virility seemed to vanish as if Tom’s presence was enough to castrate his pride and male dominance. Guess, the alpha of the pack is not always the strongest or the oldest.

Cecilia sighed and finally entered. “No way, it is the hatstall!” Mulciber shouted when he saw her. She grimaced. Of course, that name had to follow her another year. Seven minutes under a hat and you’re labelled forever, first as the shame of the Smith family who had only created Hufflepuffs for generations and then as the laughing stock of most Slytherin students. How lovely, right?          
“And she brought a pussy. How cute! Did you take it to sort of have a code name when you want some deep, carnal attention?” He mocked but she kept her cool. “Want to come and pet my pussy later?” He joked and she snickered, preferring ignorance for now instead of giving him the satisfaction his word meant something to her.         
“You just wish she would tell you that.” Entered Euphemia Jenkins, sixth-year prefect, Gryffindor, a talented black-haired witch with beautiful green eyes, deeply in love with Fleamont Potter, and with a considerable hatred for entitled people like Mulciber who should have never made prefect according to her. “Careful Mulciber, I have my eyes on you. Do something wrong, and I’ll come for you.” He opened his mouth to reply muckily as he usually would but she silenced him immediately. “Don’t!” He shut his mouth and Cecilia stared at her with a smile hoping she was as fierce.  
“I hope you realise that even Riddle won’t be able to save you this year despite his new badge of glory.” She added with a cold self-assured voice.       
“I’ll enjoy it as much as I can, Euphemia.” He replied as he patted the pin on his uniform. “After all, it may be taken away at any moment.” That definitely sounded like a threat. Had it been for anyone else, it would have been difficult to find a sharp and witted response. But Euphemia Jenkins had temper. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Prefect and Quidditch chaser. I guess I have the perfect titles to be the next head girl.”       
“ Keep dreaming, Jenkins.”

***

            **N** othing is more paradoxical than a dream. Dreams have ambivalent powers, a power of hope and transformation and a power of death and destruction. It can teach you how to improve your life as much as it can show you the way to ruin it. That’s why we say “good dream” or “bad dream” or even “nightmare”.

Nightmares in the wizarding world have a symbolism that was once shared with muggles. Indeed, there was a time when both kinds believed that those “nightmares” were due to demonic creatures called mare, malicious dark entities that sit on people’s chest as they sleep to bring sorrow and pain to their dreams. Few are the persons who ever saw one but for those who did, all agreed that this beast, though small and fat, was one of the scariest and ugliest thing in the world, with lank yellow eyes, pointed ears, smelly hairs and long claws. Often, it was described as being accompanied by another creature as dark and frightening as them. Muggles called them dark horses while wizards called them thestrals.           

However, despite the lost legends and beliefs, there is still a common agreement. Nightmares and dreams mean something and must never be taken lightly. They are both dangerous depending on what you do with them. Yes, even dreams. Because every night there is a young boy who dwells in dreams of grandeur and power and who is inhabited by a strong will to fulfill them, ready to do whatever it takes.  

 **T** here is blood on the bed. It spreads. First it is a mere stain, then it becomes a puddle. It keeps spreading. It becomes a pond, a pond as red as the small new-born crying out for air for the first time while her dying mother breathes her last breath to whisper the name of the child she would never see grow up. Life leaves her as she closes her beautiful green eyes and sorrow strikes the man at her bedside like a knife in the heart. He cannot look at the child, that awful shouting little creature, that tiny monster that took the woman he loved away from him. He cannot look at it. It looks too much like her and nothing like him. He wants it away and so the baby is placed in a wooden crib. She cries. She cries for love and care.            
On the bed, the silver-haired mother is gone. Instead, there is another woman, skinny with prominent bones. Her skin is as pale as death. Her dull black hair is soaked in tears, sweat and blood. Her thin mouth whispers dying wishes and a name that can only be heard by the woman at her side. Her eyes, dark blue and defeated, stare in opposite directions but both see the same thing, a thick obscure smoke falling from the ceiling. It wraps her like a cloak as black as the night. She closes her eyes, never to open them again.        
And her son, her beautiful son, is placed by the baby girl’s side. He is silent. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t move. A very strange little child but in its dark eyes, fear spreads as blood on cotton sheets.     
A macabre motherly song echoes in the room. A woman with bony black fingers swings the crib. Then her hollowed eyes shoot at Cecilia. She stands still in the middle of the room. She stares back. That face. She has seen that face before. She knows that woman. She does not fear her.  
A rabbit fall at her feet. Skinless, bloody, cold, white-eyed. She jumps and gasps. Something grabs her hand. There are a small skinny boy and a little girl in faded grey uniforms. They are soaking wet and so afraid. Panicked even. They are begging her with their terrified eyes, begging her to help them, to spare them. "Help us!" "Pease!" They extend their arms, try to reach out. Cecilia steps back. She limps and falls.      
Hanging from the ceiling, the corpses of her brother and father are observing her with a deadly hatred that freezes her on the floor. They are pointing at her now, their mouth agape. A loud scream escapes from them. It is so gruesome, so sharp, so piercing like a thousand yelling ghouls. She puts her hands over her ears, closes her eyes until she feels something cold yet soft sliding between her legs. Two dark eyes are now staring at her and soon a mouth opens to hiss something that only she can understand. The forked tongue touches her cheek then her lips while the serpentine body wraps around her in a dangerous yet loving way. And she cannot describe how she feels. Everything is so confusing.              
She looks away for an instant, rather breathless. In the corner of the room, there is the woman, the one with the bony hands and the black cloak. She has tears in her eyes. And in the void of her dark eyes, you can sense fear. She whispers something. An omen, a warning.   
“My child, my sweet child, when the time comes, beware of my lost son."

 **C** ecilia’s eyes suddenly opened wide. Breathless, she looked around her, lost and confused, wondering what time it was or even where she was. When she recognized the leather seats and the red tapestry as well as the station through the window, she took a deep long breath. She was in the Hogwarts Express and the train had finally arrived.         
“Are you alright?” Euphemia asked, a hand on Cecilia’s shoulder. The girl nodded and faked a soft smile. “Yes, just let me wake up.” Euphemia giggled, amused, and took her suitcase before leaving the compartment, letting the blond-haired girl lost in a hazy world between dreams and reality.

Cecilia breathed out again and hid her face in her hands. “Not again.” She whispered before finally standing up with difficulty to collect her suitcase above her head, still thinking about the weird things she had seen in her sleep.  
She put it on the floor and turned around only to see Tom Riddle sitting on the table behind her. His dark eyes were staring at her with an intensity that left her uneasy and confused, a bit like those snake eyes she had seen in her dream. He remained silent. So did she. But then he said with a weirdly smooth and calm voice.   
“ There is a potion for dreamless sleep in one of the books of the library. It should be easy to brew, even for you.”           
Cecilia watched him leave, a frown on her face. Had he just read her mind?

***

 **T** he crackling flames were dancing in the large fireplace as bright and red as Fawkes the phoenix who was sleeping, his head under his wing, in a corner of the small study. They were beautiful to watch and also to listen to. With a cup of now lukewarm tea in her white hands, Cecilia had almost forgotten she was in Dumbledore’s office until she saw him coming back with a bowl of yellow sweets in his hand. “Lemon sherbet? I brought them back from my visit to London.” He offered with a smile. She politely took one although she didn’t really know what it truly was since her family wasn’t really fond of muggle treats. It was surprisingly not as bitter as she thought it would be. “You know, Cecilia, Professor Slughorn might feel a little jealous if he ever learns about your recent visits.”   
“Professor Slughorn is not as good as you when it comes to listening, professor.” She answered with a honesty she almost immediately regretted. “You’re not going to tell him, are you, sir?” She hurried to ask him, with a hint of panic in her voice. He shook his head. “No, of course not. Though, you should remember that in Hogwarts nothing stays secret for long. Paintings have ears.” He whispered, hiding his mouth with his hand.           
“ A chance that Headmaster Black’s portrait is not hanging by your door then, professor.” She joked in return and the old man laughed. “You’re right. He is an atrocious chatterbox. I don’t know how Headmaster Dippet can bear his presence” He confessed what everybody in this school thought. “ _Never try to understand the students. They hate it. They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, wallow in self-pity._ ” Dumbledore mocked with a husky voice worthy of a firewhisky connoisseur and that perfectly resembled Phineas Nigellus Black’s voice. The imitation was on point and it made the Slytherin student chuckle a bit.              
“ I suppose he would criticize me a lot if he knew I was here. A Slytherin in the office of the Head of Gryffindor. That’s not how it should be.” She looked down in her tea-cup, ashamed.     
“ This is not a common room, Cecilia.” He gestured at the small room. “You’ll always be welcome here, as anyone else.” He reassured her before heating up her cup of tea with the tip of his wand. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”    

She took a sip of her white tea and with a hesitation she knew was silly she finally confessed the reason of her visit. “I’m having dreams, nightmares.” She paused and looked at the hot tea in her cup again. “They are often the same and they look so real, as if they were memories of some sort.” She didn't see Dumbledore frown but he did.         
“ I’m afraid I’m not the most qualifies to give advice on dreams, Cecilia. Professor Imago however …”       
“I don’t need advice. I just want them gone, professor. Those dreams … they are playing with my sanity. I can’t sleep anymore. I feel like I’m going crazy.” She declared, desperate.   
“And what are those dream about? May I ask?”          
“I see my parents. I see my brother and … other macabre things. I wake up breathless. I can’t keep doing this, sir. It’s ruining my life and my studies’.   
“I still strongly advise you to analyse those dreams. They may contain some …”  She cut him short, irritated.             
“I don’t need to analyse anything! I know what they mean, why they are haunting me. It’s called trauma. Because I’ve always felt guilty about what happened. And I can’t behave otherwise no matter how hard I try. That pain will never be gone.”      
“Believe me Cecilia, I understand what you feel. And as much as it is not good to dwell on dreams, using magic to get rid of them is not the key.” She sighed, unable to contain her disappointment. She had hoped for something else, other words, actions, actual help. “I’m sorry, my answer is not what you expected.” She didn't reply and the professor soon changed the subject of their conversation “How are you doing with your Animagus training by the way?”   
“ I have gathered all the ingredients necessary for the potion. But I have to start it all over. I swallowed the mandrake leaf because of Avery yesterday” She admitted with a soft smile. “Perhaps I should wait for the holidays to try again. To be sure I’m focused enough.”   
“Maybe yes. Becoming an animagus is a dangerous process. I would not want a student to turn into a weird half-badger half human animal during an O.W.L exam.”  She chuckled but something sounded off in her laugh.

***

The table suddenly shook and the small pot of black ink almost spilled on the rolled out parchment. Annoyed, Tom, who was working on his DADA essay, glanced to his right to see a set of heavy leathery books piled on the table. He breathed out and put the quill back in the bottle to finally look at the student that had dared disturb him. He wasn't surprised though when he saw who it was.  
" Smith."  
" That dreamless sleep potion. I need it."  
Tom Riddle smiled.  


End file.
